Definition Of
by idreamof
Summary: How Mal met Arthur. Rated T for now, rating may go up. Hurt/Comfort/Angst/Friendship
1. Chapter 1

AN: Canon pairings. I don't own Inception (disclaimer for all chapters) or anything else that you recognize. No beta, apologies in advance for any mistakes. I have no real medical knowledge. I'm also prone to shameless fluff and pointless angst/h/c. I'm making up ages and last/first names where they apply.

The first time she sees him he's coming in to sit in the third row, just off of centre, of her father's lecture theatre, ten minutes early and yet still looking kind of frazzled. He's of average height, slim, bordering on thin, dressed neatly, but not expensively, khakis, shirt and vest, and he keeps his head ducked down the entire way to his seat. She glances quickly at the timetable taped down at the top right corner of the desk and, after a quick glance at the clock to confirm, finds that he must be here for _History of Architecture from the Fifteenth Century_. It's a second year history course, judging by the course code. She looks at him again. He's shuffling papers around, pulling out a notebook. His dark hair hides his eyes as he reaches down to grab something out of his bag. A pen, which he then places on top of his notebook.

She's twenty-seven, and has been working with her father for over six years now, since before she completed her degree. She knows research, she knows extraction, she can unflinchingly slip a needle into her wrist, and she even knows the basics of the different sedatives commonly used in her field. She technically has a degree in philosophy, but she hasn't really used it since she graduated. Her father had a job ready and waiting for her, and while her acquired analytical skills were useful, the specifics were never really needed.

She tears her eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring, and she sees her father coming back down to the podium, a small stack of folders in his hands. He puts a hand on her shoulder after he hands them to her, and murmurs that he'll talk to her later with more instructions. The rest of the class is filtering in by that point, so she takes that as her cue to leave.

She lives on her own, in an apartment very close to the university, which she'd attended several years ago. She'd moved in at the start of her third year, determined to start living her own life and find her own way in the city she'd grown up in, and knew and loved. A voice in the back of her head had reminded her of this desire when she'd agreed to work with her father not long after, but she loved the work, and she loved the challenge, so she'd accepted and never looked back.

She loves living on her own, but the apartment is spacious and sometimes feels empty. Most of her close friends from school have already moved on with their lives, and many are even married with children. Coworkers come and go in her line of work, and living with one of them could hardly be considered safe, dream-sharing being the field that it is. So, she figures that until she finds the right person, she will enjoy the freedom of living alone.

Her second glimpse of him is short. It's just over two weeks later and she's come to visit her father again, this time waiting respectfully outside the door since she knows a class is in session. When the class is over, he's the first one out, and he hurries past her, apologizing softly as he dodges people, apparently in quite the hurry as he leaves the building. She watches the doors behind him for just a second longer, other students and faculty crossing her line of sight before turning back to the door to her father's classroom, slipping in when there is a break in the stream of students leaving. She gives him a folder of research on a mark and a quick peck on the cheek, accepts a container with some chocolate cake baked by her mother in it, and after promising him that she'll come have dinner with them that evening, she leaves to go meet with their current architect to go over the details of the dream.

It isn't until she's just about to fall asleep that she realizes that she's spent the entire time she's been lying in bed thinking about him.

The third time she sees him they both get on the Métro at the stop closest to the building of the university where her father works, and she sits across and a few seats down from him, peeking up at him intermittently from her book. He appears to be completely engrossed in _Vector Calculus_, his right leg shaking restlessly, and doesn't appear to notice her for the greater part of the ride. He looks up once when she snaps her phone shut before replacing it in her purse, right before she gets off the train. He gives her a slightly puzzled look, frowning slightly, as if trying to remember where he has seen her before, but appears to dismiss the thought, going back to his textbook after hardly a second.

She isn't sure why he fascinates her. She's sure it isn't attraction – he's clearly at least five years younger than her, possibly closer to seven, and she hasn't wanted to undress him with her eyes the times she's seen him, she just… she isn't sure. He's good looking, to be sure, his face simultaneously painfully boyish and angular. She thinks about how, both times she's seen him, his clothes have been perfectly pressed and neat. She thinks he's gotten thinner, but she knows she hasn't seen him nearly often enough or closely enough to be sure. She's never seen him smile. His hair is dark and soft and straight and cut fairly short. His face is always pale and clean shaven. He carries his books in a messenger bag. She knows nothing important about him and yet somehow he always manages to make her feel a little sad, and she can't for the life of her figure out why.

The fourth time she sees him it's late. She's walking back to her apartment after a night at the bar with a few of her friends from university, and she's a little drunk, but only a little. She hears painful retching coming from just around the corner of the building she's passing, and she sees someone hunched over in an alley, gagging and sobbing intermittently. She comes up behind him, putting a hand on his back, and it isn't until he jumps slightly and turns slightly to lay red-rimmed eyes on her that she realizes that she recognizes him, and that it's _him._ He reeks of alcohol, which startles her a little even though she's tipsy herself. She puts what she hopes is a comforting hand on his shoulder for a second, and then digs through her purse for a tissue, which she hands him. She wishes she had a bottle of water on her, but there's nothing she can do about it now.

She opens her mouth to ask him if she can walk him home, or maybe call a friend, when suddenly he's coughing. And when that starts, he doesn't seem to be able to stop. He's coughing and coughing and wheezing and she doesn't know when he grabbed her arm but his knuckles are turning white and she vaguely registers that his grip on her hurts and then he's on the ground, sitting dangerously close to the puddle of vomit, still clutching her arm, his lips slowly but surely turning blue.

She doesn't know what to do, so she manages to pull out her phone with his grip still on her arm, and calls an ambulance.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I don't really understand how the medical/amulance system works in France (don't really know how it works here in Canada either, but yeah). I also don't know what receptionists/doctors can release. I don't know what kind of work Miles did in dreaming, because I thought he seemed to disapprove of Cobb's work. I'm going on the assumption that, if the military developed it, the government would know about it, and might run cases of their own, not military related.

He threw up once more, while they were waiting for an ambulance, and at one point seemed to come to his senses enough to try to search for something in his pockets. When he didn't find what he was looking for she thought she could see the panic in his eyes go up a notch. The rest of the time, however, he continued to cough and wheeze, with tears trickling down his pale cheeks, and she sat with him, rubbing his back, wishing that she knew how to help him.

She could feel him losing energy as the minutes went by, as he slumped more and more against her side. She felt like hours had gone by, where in reality she knew it must have only been five or six minutes, when the coughing stopped and he fell against her entirely, unconscious. With shaking hands she pulled him into her lap, and tried to check if he was breathing, straining her ears to hear the siren of an ambulance.

And then she heard it.

When Arthur has been loaded into the ambulance, they tell her which hospital they will be going to, and leave. She watches the lights until she can no longer see them, and then sits down heavily on the ground again. Her dress will need to be washed, without question, and she is definitely sober by that point. She then realizes that she can't go to the hospital and ask for him, since she doesn't even know his name.

They'd asked for it, asked if she knew him, and she'd regretfully had to tell them, "No, but he's a student of my father's at the university. Second year History of Architecture," because truthfully, that is absolutely everything that she knows about him. They'll find out later, she figures, he'll be carrying identification. They'll call his family and he'll get better and she'll probably never say a word to him, seeing him occasionally in her father's class. Or maybe not even that much, because it's April and the semester's either almost over or over already.

She forces herself to get up and brush the dirt off of her knees and dress, straightens her shoulders, and sets off for her apartment. When there, she drops her purse on the floor, quickly slips out of her dress, and takes a quick shower, letting the hot water wash the tension from her shoulders. When she's settled in pyjamas, she sits down on the couch, picks up the phone and calls her father.

"Hello?"

"_Papa_."

"Mal?"

She lets out a strained laugh. "Yes, _Papa_, who else would it be?"

"Mal, are you alright? You sound…"

"_Papa," _she cuts him off. "_Papa_, you know your History of Architecture class?"

"Second year?"

"Yes, he… there's a student in it. Dark hair, very thin, pale. He was the first one there when I came to get the files for the case for the government a few months ago."

"A few months? Mal, that's very vague, I don't know if I can…"

"Please, _Papa,_ think… I've seen him a few times since, and he's always very neatly dressed, he was reading something about mathematics when I saw him on the train… He looks very young, although I suppose most of your students do… He's clean shaven, he's good-looking, probably five foot nine or ten, he…"

"Mathematics? A textbook?" She murmurs a confirmation. "I can think of a few lads that I know that fit that general description, but it's a relatively small class, and architecture students aren't allowed to take it, and there's one boy in it that I know is minoring in mathematics, majoring in history. Arthur Williams, very bright, dark hair, thin, average height, I've actually considered asking him to work with us – he has a great mind for details… I know that Thomas Anderson is studying physics, so he would also have to take mathematics, but as of late he's been keeping a rather scruffy looking soul patch, and you said no beards."

"No, no facial hair."

"Then I'd guess that it's Arthur, darling, why?"

"I…" suddenly faced with telling her father what had happened, she finds that she cannot speak.

"Mal? Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I…I was at the bar, _Papa,_ with some friends, and I was walking home, and I found him in an alley, and…"

"Mal, are you alright?" His voice is worried, and slightly tense.

"Yes, yes I'm fine, but he… he was very drunk and he was throwing up and then he started coughing, and his lips were blue, and I called an ambulance and they took him to the hospital, and I know that I don't know him, but I can't… I need to go see him, to find out if he's alright, the ambulance wouldn't take me, and I didn't know his name, _Papa,_ so I… I called you."

"You're at home?"

"Yes."

"I'll come pick you up."

* * *

><p>Miles parks the car, and they walk to the hospital reception desk together.<p>

"Excuse me, but we're here to see Arthur Williams?" The receptionist looks up at Miles.

"I'm very sorry, but visiting hours are over." Mal grabs her father's hand. He looks down at her, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, darling, but we'll have to come back tomorrow." He looks back at the receptionist. "Do you know anything about his condition?" She turns to her computer for a few seconds, and then looks back up at them.

"What is your relation to Mr. Williams, sir?"

"I'm his professor, and this is my daughter. She's the one who called the ambulance… please, could we know if he's alright?"

The receptionist shakes her head slowly, but then admits, "He's stable, sir… but… he has no emergency contacts listed; do you know of any that we could get in touch with?"

Miles shakes his head regretfully. "No, I don't. I'm sorry."

They leave with no more information, but a promise that they'll be able to visit that morning at nine.

* * *

><p>She knows her father has a meeting at 8:45, so she sets off for the hospital on foot. It's a long walk, but he lets the brisk morning air calm her and wake her up completely. The city is waking up, and she watches as extra chairs are put out in cafés, which are filled with people ordering breakfast. She stops to pick up a pastry and coffee on her way, and walks as she eats.<p>

She reaches the hospital just past nine, and finds out from the receptionist that Arthur is in room 305. She takes the elevator and wanders the halls for a few minutes before finding the room. Unsure how she should announce her presence, she hovers outside the door for a few seconds before knocking softly, and, when there is no answer, opening the door a crack and peeking in.

At first she thinks he's asleep, his face turned away from the door, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, but when she closes the door as gently as possibly behind her, he turns toward her, confused brown eyes staring at her, a frown creasing his forehead. She figures he's probably trying to figure out who she is, because they really don't know each other, and she's doubtful his memory of the previous night is clear.

"I'm Mal… Mallorie Miles. Professor Miles's daughter?" His frown deepens at that and he looks more confused than before. "Oh, I… I found you in the alley, where you were… sick. I called the ambulance."

He makes a motion of writing, and she realizes that he can't say anything through the mask. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small memo pad and a pen, and hands it to him. He quirks a small smile at her through the clear plastic of the mask as he takes it from her, and immediately sets to writing.

_Thank you. I don't know where I'd be right now if you hadn't. _

She gives him a small smile. "I'm so glad I was there to help you." She pauses, unsure whether it would be acceptable to ask, but then figures he doesn't have to answer anyway: "If you don't mind, what did the doctor say?"

He starts writing again, and turns the paper back to her a few seconds later.

_I have pneumonia, but I also have asthma, and I forgot my inhaler. The alcohol didn't help. _

He gives her a sad smile.

_Basically, it was my own fault. Thank you for getting me out of it. _

"Are your family coming?" She regrets saying it as soon as the words have left her mouth, because his face immediately darkens, and he scribbles a simple _no _on the paper before sighing and starting to doodle aimlessly on the notepad. He sighs again, and looks back up at her briefly.

_Thanks for visiting, though. _

She smiles and puts her hand on his, careful of the IV lines. His hand is cold and feels thin even beneath her own. She looks back at his face and notes the dark circles under his eyes, and the pallor of his cheeks. She thinks that he must be exhausted. She gently pats his hand once before getting up and collecting her things. She leaves him the notepad and pen.

"I'll leave you to rest, sweetheart." He waves at her as she walks out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I'm no doctor – terribly sorry if this story is not realistic medically (or otherwise, haha). I'm trying. Reviews are loved sooo muchhhh.

It is two days before she goes back to the hospital again. A big case coming to a close had resulted in her spending two days straight at work, running on very little sleep and a whole lot of caffeine. The majority of her shut-eye had involved the PASIV, anyway, which more often than not was more exhausting than not getting any sleep at all.

She walks into the hospital just past one in the afternoon, and after quickly checking with the front desk to make sure he hasn't left or been moved, makes her way up to room 305. When she gets there, the nurse is just leaving, and they exchange small smiles before she slips through the door to his room and shuts it behind her. He is alone, and she wonders briefly if anyone has been to visit him, and if so, who. She remembers that he said that his family wouldn't visit, and wonders why, but knows it's not her place to ask.

He is doodling on her notepad, his bed inclined slightly, and doesn't seem to notice her presence. She walks to the side of his bed, and as she sits down on the edge of his bed he looks up, and quirks a smile. She is dismayed to see that he is still wearing the oxygen mask, and she wonders if there are other details to his condition that she doesn't know. His face is pale and his cheeks look sunken and there are deep purple shadows underneath his eyes, but what she notices the most is that he just seems sad.

Sometimes when she is with him she has to remind herself that she doesn't actually know him, because for all that he is an enigma to her, she can't help but feel like she knows him, and for all that she has been disillusioned to the supposedly amazing things in the world, like dreams and the subconscious, through her line of work, she can't help but feel like they were meant to meet.

He puts the notepad and pencil on the small table beside his bed and she notices that, other than the water pitcher and glass, and things that obviously belong to the hospital, there isn't anything else on it: no flowers, no cards, no gifts. Absolutely nothing personal that would mean that anybody had come to see him. She reminds herself that nothing left behind doesn't necessarily mean he hasn't had any visitors, and forces herself out of her thoughts. She looks back up at him with a smile.

"Hey."

He smiles back - and she is revels for a second in the sight of his adorable dimples - and then he seems to suddenly realize that he needs the notepad after all. He picks it up again and scribbles:

_Hi. _

"How are you feeling?" She puts a hand on his knee, and he looks confused for a second before shaking it off. He shrugs his shoulders.

"I'm Mal, Professor Miles's daughter. Do you remember?" He nods.

Suddenly, for reasons she can't explain, she just starts talking. She starts with a slightly edited version of her past few days, claiming that her father has a small architecture firm, but then she moves onto the people she saw the last time she went people-watching in the park, crazy stories she either heard or was a part of in college, her friends' ridiculous lives…

He listens attentively, his bright brown eyes on her as she goes through tale after tale, crinkling at the funny parts. She decides then that she is absolutely in love with his smile, partially hidden though it is by the mask.

She talks for the greater part of two hours before she notices his eyelids starting to droop, but his gaze is still fixated on her, so she lowers and softens her voice slightly as she keeps talking. Not long after, she sees that his eyes are closed completely and his breathing is even in sleep, so she runs a gentle hand through his hair, picks up her bag, and leaves as quietly as she can.

She walks back to her apartment, enjoying the feeling of the day's light breeze on her face, and drinking in the sights and smells and sounds of Paris in the afternoon. When she reaches her apartment for the first time in two days she gratefully slips off her shoes and immediately turns on the television for background noise, suddenly hating how empty the place feels after spending two days with a group of people – and projections. She sets to making tea, and then sits down with her drink in front of the television. She stares blankly at it for about twenty minutes, sipping her tea, before finally getting up and settling in at her kitchen table, pulling out the paperwork she promised her father she'd do.

She's distracted and she knows it.

Frustrated, she gathers the papers back up again and locks them in a drawer. She showers, puts on pyjamas, and crawls into her bed, slipping into a much-needed sleep.

She wakes up the next morning at five-thirty, and spends time watching T.V. and cleaning and organizing until she's decided that it's a decent hour to go visit her parents.

She finds them in the kitchen, sitting and eating breakfast together. Her mother gets up as soon as she sees Mal walk in the door, and they greet their daughter enthusiastically. Giving her daughter a quick kiss on the cheek her mother sets to serving her the leftover breakfast. Mal accepts it gratefully, and sits down at her usual seat at the table.

They chatter aimlessly for a while, before Mal blurts out something that she didn't even know herself that she was sure of, but as she says it she is suddenly aware of how desperately she wants it, and she knows that she will follow through.

"_Maman, Papa,_ I need a roommate."


End file.
